Color Me Tasteless

I have no taste. I cannot pick clothes that go together. I have no fashion sense. I cannot choose fabrics for a quilt. I was born this way. I am not color blind but I am missing the tasteful color gene. This wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have the ambition to dress attractively, be a fashion designer, and make quilts.

My mother taught me to sew at a young age. I was sewing seams on the sewing machine by the time that I was 8. In junior high I was making all of my own clothes. By high school I was sewing banquet dresses for my mother and even a wedding dress for my sister. I was good at crafting garments. I was not so good at picking the fabrics that go into one.

When I was 11 I went to Camp Fire Girl camp. Swimming, crafts, and horse back riding interested me, so I signed up. The camp brochure said that riding clothes were required for getting on the horses. My mom had confidence in my talents so she said that I could sew the necessary clothes. “Riding outfit” would be a misleading term for the pink floral concoction that I constructed. At the fabric store I reasoned that the main purpose of the riding clothes was to save my other clothes from hazards like dust, dirt and dung. Therefore, it didn’t matter what they looked like. I chose a simple pattern of poncho and elastic waist pants. I found a nice floral print in the four yards for a dollar bin. Striking a festive note, I added pink balled trim around the poncho edge and pants hems. My camp counselors were suitably impressed,
“Hey, you. Look out! You’re scaring the horses.”

Photos of me at that time reveal a complete lack of style. Sporting my headgear for my braces, I posed happily with my family on vacation. I guess I had a weakness for pink florals, because I was wearing a different wild flower print on that occasion. As a grown up, my best friend has had to struggle with keeping boys away from her young daughters. I can see that my mother had no reason for such worries.

In junior high, I began sewing for my mother as well as myself. My mom was a high school teacher and had to attend many dinners for her classes. She picked out the fabrics and I sewed all of her banquet dresses. We even created our own pattern when I made my sister’s wedding gown. My skillful construction of clothes led me to the conclusion that I would be a good fashion designer. My complete lack of taste and impaired sense of color, did not dissuade me. I discovered one of those old banquet dresses a few years ago. Evidently my poor fashion sense was an inherited trait.

I abandoned dreams of a fashion career in high school and opted for a more practical major of mechanical engineering. College, marriage and children occupied my time and there was little time for sewing. Laid off from Bell Helicopter in 1991, I became a stay-at-home mom and had more time for sewing. I took up quilting.

Quilting utilized my good construction skills and gave me an opportunity for creative expression. Unfortunately, bad taste was all I was able to express. I became infuriated one evening when I tried to assemble a simple scrap quilt. I chose to make it out of strips of different green fabrics. I had many green scraps to choose from. I tried myriad alternatives and failed to find a combination of five strips that looked good together. Blue green stood out of one fabric as I held it up to another. I put that down only to find the next piece was a yellow green that didn’t match the forest green. I didn’t have a good enough sense of color to select the few pieces that blended together. I only knew enough about color to see how horrible the combinations that I came up with were. It was an extremely simple quilt and I could have finished it in an hour, but I was so angry about the mismatched colors that I never sewed a stitch.

Then in 1997 five babies at Lexington Church of Christ were swaddled in beautiful quilts I constructed. How did that happen? I learned a trick. My quilting instructor revealed to the class one day a simple technique for matching fabrics. “Start with a print you like. Remember that fabric designers are very skilled at choosing colors. Take the print with you to the fabric store and pick out coordinating fabrics by choosing colors that are in that print.”

It worked! I made quilts for the babies at church and a wall hanging for the ladies’ craft exchange and a vest for my sister’s birthday and a queen sized quilt for the guest room. And they all matched. They all had coordinating colors.

Now I needed to find a way to dress attractively. My fabric trick didn’t seem to help me at the clothing store. Well, if I couldn’t change the way I wore colors, maybe I could change the way those colors were perceived. I needed to find a guy who had no sense of color. One who could find my twisted fashion sense attractive. Then I met Marty. He thinks I’m beautiful all the time, no matter what. I call it special brain damage. He calls it love. Problem solved.

A Good Man

They say you just can’t keep a good man down. That could have been said about my friend, Pete, who died from cancer last week. I met Haral Pederson at work eight years ago. He told me that his friends called him “Pete” so he was always “Pete” to me.

The memorable thing about Pete is that he had a life well lived. He lived fully right up to the last days of his life. He was a great example of hope and perseverance. He enjoyed his garden, his painting, his gambling and his ice cream. He kept going, he stayed active, long after most people would have confined themselves to bed.

I remember lots of things about Pete:

I remember him telling me that he snuck away from his wife, Julie, in the middle of the night to go gambling at the casino. A couple of years later, after he was so sick he couldn’t drive; I said “I guess you’re not going to be sneaking off to go gambling anymore.” “No, I guess not,” he said.

I remember how long he kept coming to work after he was sick. He said it made him feel better to be there.

I remember when I took him out to Pappadeux’s for lunch shortly after he found out that the cancer came back, again. He said, “I don’t want to talk about cancer,” and so we didn’t.

It was my mission to cheer him up. I told him many of my secrets. I told him things that I would never dare to tell a married man from work. I told him how I thought there might be a serious relationship in my future with the guy in the office next to him. I broke all of my rules with him. I thought, “What difference does it make? This guy is going to die soon and he will take all of my secrets to the grave.” Then when he seemed to be getting better, I told him, “After everything that I’ve told you, if you don’t die, I’m going to have to kill you.” I needn’t have worried, he lived for several years after that but he never betrayed my trust.

The hopeful thing about Pete’s story is that a person can be ravaged by cancer but not give into it. He knew that cancer would take his life, but he never let it take over his life. He lived his life as long as he possibly could. He didn’t ask for sympathy, he just wanted to keep living.

He kept living by always having a goal. A few years ago, he wanted to live long enough for his daughter’s wedding. He rode his wheelchair down the aisle and gave Erika away in July, 2005. She got pregnant the next year and he wanted to live long enough to see his granddaughter. Aubrey was born in July, 2007. This past fall, September 2008, he wanted to go to the beach one more time. His son, Trey, went with him to Destin Beach, Florida. In December, Pete told me he wanted to go to the casino again. His brother took him soon after that. Earlier this month, he was lying in bed during our visit because he was too weary to sit up. After we had been there an hour, he said, “Let’s go get ice cream.” He seemed to think that he was perfectly capable of getting out of bed and taking a ride to Braum’s. I convinced him to let my husband, Marty (the guy who used to be in the office next to Pete) go and bring us back some ice cream. When Marty returned, Pete ate a big bowl of chocolate almond.

When I was a kid I remember seeing a book on my dad’s shelf. It was a book by Norman Vincent Peale entitled “Stay Alive All Your Life.” That book could have been written about my friend, Pete, because that’s what he did.

A Stitch in Time

Do you think that you are a procrastinator? Do you keep putting off things that you know you ought to be working on? I know that I am a procrastinator. I just finished a project that I started 12 years ago.

In 1997 I was a happy, stay-at-home mom. My two kids were in school and I finally had some time to myself during the day. I started quilting as a creative hobby. I made about five quilts for friends at church who were having babies. I decided that it was time I lavished some of my talent on my own children, so I started a quilt for my son. He was 12.

I chose his old blue jeans as the quilting material. This involved ripping open the double seams of his jeans, pressing them, cutting them into strips and then sewing them back together. I tried a tumbling block pattern. I liked it because if the light and dark pieces are chosen correctly, it gives a three-dimensional geometric effect. I sewed a sample block. It involved 60 degree angles and precise piecing. The result was a pattern that was much too complicated for bulky denim fabric.

Next I tried a Roman Square pattern which was three rectangles sewn side by side. Simple pattern with minimum seams, it was perfect. Then my world fell apart. I went through a divorce and suddenly had to face single parenting and rebuilding my career to support my family. All thoughts of quilting flew out the window.

A few years later when I had a week off at Christmas, I ripped apart more jeans, cut more strips and sewed a few more squares. During the rest of the year it was hard to find the time and the project box would sit in the top of the closet until the next December. Some Christmases, I didn’t get the box out at all. Every summer I would say,
“I’ll finish this in time for his next birthday.”
After his October birthday passed, I would say,
“I’ll finish this for his Christmas gift.”
Several Christmases passed and I said,
“I’ll finish this for his high school graduation.”

In between I made progress on the quilt. I cut out and sewed all 88 of the Roman Squares that I needed. He became engaged and I thought,
“I’ll finish this for his wedding present.”
I didn’t make the wedding deadline. About five years ago I had a flurry of activity and got most of the rows completed. I laid them out on my bed in the order that they were to be sewed together, but my vacation time ended. I rolled up the rows, and put them back in the box. The next time I sewed a few more rows together and then had to roll them up and put them away again.

In November, 2008 I said,
“I am going to finish this quilt.”
I thought that I could get it done by Christmas.
It was a normal December: hectic and overloaded with too many activities, so I said,
“I’m not going to stress myself out by pushing to get this done by Christmas, but I will get it done.”

So, every spare moment after Christmas I crammed in a little sewing time. I got all of the rows of the quilt assembled. I returned to work after New Year’s. I kept sewing in the evenings. I sewed on the side triangles and the border. I worked on Saturdays and assembled the quilt top, batting and backing. In desperation, I temporarily abandoned writing in my blog and machine quilted the assembled pieces. Then I sewed on the outside binding.

I finished the quilt on January 26, 2008. On the following Saturday I handed over a wrapped package and I said,
“Son, this is your graduation, wedding, Christmas, and birthday gift for the last twelve years.”
My 24 year old, married son, father of my three year grandson said,
“Thanks, Mom.”